Seeing in Riddles
by silverstep
Summary: What inspiration drove Salazar Slytherin to create his Chamber? Who was Tom Riddle's mother? random ficlet, inspired from (if not accurate to the requirements of) a challenge off fictionallley.
1. Default Chapter

(random little fic partly inspired by a challenge off but it didn't really follow the challenge; just sort of ..spawned. May be one-shot, may not. Chronicles the creation of the chamber, and the life of Riddle's mother. How many years of preparation created the man known as Tom Riddle? How long was he awaited?

Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter, or any of the characters except my dear OC's thus far, Tynan and Jules. And I apologize now for whatever mistakes I made with date, plot, in reference to the books. I'm terrible with small details.

So I really will stop rambling now. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think with a Review. Reviews make me exceedingly happy. And happy authors update faster. hint, hint)

Seeing in Riddles

"Blast it."

Of all the damnable times for the seer to have vision, this was possibly the most damnable. His words ricocheted off hard stone walls, cutting through the silent cold air of the predawn castle. His lengthy strides were quick, however. For all that the little whelp of a seer was but a girl, she had never led her Master wrong. The Sight flowed clear and strong in this one.

The lord Salazar Slytherin was not a patient man, and the uncontrollable visions seemed to mock him. One of only two things in his life he could not control, and it flaunted it, appearing at odd hours of the night, or in the middle of meeting with some of the most powerful men in the world. He longed to strangle whatever force took over when Tynan's eyes rolled back in her head, and that omnipotent voice took her. Rarely did she prophesy; probably because it disliked giving its information to a man who was so…mundane, Salazar bitterly reflected. Instead, the pale wraith of a girl would stand suspended for anywhere from a moment to a day, viewing things no one else saw. Hearing things no one else heard.

Of course, she always told him afterwards, he reasoned, so it didn't really matter in the long run. But it irked him nonetheless. One of the few gifts denied to the mighty Slytherin: the Sight.

"_Calm yourself",_ advised the silk-tongued adder that clung to his neck, his brother taking up the right arm. _"If the girl does go into a vision before you get there, it could be hours before she tells you anything useful." _As always, Sahrren was the voice of reason hissing in his ear.

But Salazar did not slow his pace, letting his dark robes billow out behind him, for all that the night air left him chilled to the bone. In a matter of minutes his long legs nimbly ascended the winding stairs to his ward's apartments, in his private branch of the castle.

Many had been surprised when he'd taken the destitute youth under his wing. Left an orphan, many were shocked at what could actually be interpreted as an act of kindness from the Slytherin lord. Few had ever questioned why, exactly she was an orphan, and no one ever questioned why the two mild-mannered sorcerers who raised her had been found stabbed and burned. More acts of muggle violence, of course, it was assumed. But then, none ever really looked into the cold gray eyes that rested under those long lashes. None ever saw the malicious smirk that could twist those innocent rose lips just so. None had ever heard the acid drip of hatred in that soft voice. None except Salazar, that is.

But Tynan did not come destitute, in Salazar's view. It had been a matter of profit, he told himself. Tynan was a valuable asset- her visions had provided him with invaluable information, and no one ever really deciphered how the Lord of Slytherin always knew which allies were lying between their teeth, and when to keep his wand close at hand. But in his heart he held a grudging respect for the little murderess. Her brand of malice came wrapped in lace and silk, cozened with such innocent wide eyes, and coyly packaged in naïveté. She reminded him of himself at that age, really. Minus the lace, of course.

He flung open the carved oak door, letting the light from the brightly burning fire in the grate flood the dim hallway. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't believe in keeping his servants in complete squalor. Salazar believed that the state of his servants was a reflection on his image, and so his loyal few were kept in relative luxury. Tynan's small room was draped with thick rugs and bright tapestries, and a fiercely burning fireplace warded off the cold. Jules had the girl ensconced in a red armchair, a blanket haphazardly draped over her shivering shoulders. For some reason, Tynan was always wracked with cold during visions, not matter how well-stoked the fire in her room was.

"You've arrived just in time," said the broad-shouldered Frenchman, handing his lord a steaming cup of cider. "She just went under. I believe we will be in for a long night, my lord. You may be wanting this."

"My thanks, Jules."

She had indeed gone under, Salazar noticed. The luxuriously long lashes now were half-lidded over startlingly blank white eyes. Tynan sat unnaturally stiff, and her deep brown hurls hung about her face. She looked like a puppet used by a novice puppeteer.

A rasping breath escaped her and she gasped, clutching at her heart as though something had lodged itself there. Her lips parted, and a grating voice rasped from the girl's delicate lips.

"Slytherin's gaze may be fierce

And Slytherin's gaze may be strong

But he rules not alone here

While others still roam here

He will not tarry too long.

Cast out by the three is the snake

And the blood in these halls shan't be pure

Unless he will hide it

And his time; will bide it

Until enemies roam here no more.

Then an heir from the past shall arise

A riddle that no one can tell

Leave him your chamber

That he might remember

The legacy's unending well

He will cleanse all the world of impure ones

If your dreams carry true through the years

If this chamber you build

Is well-guarded by skill

Then dark hope may yet still live here."

Salazar nearly choked on his cider listening to the mocking sing-song rhythm of the ditty. And the message the rhyme contained. Thrown out? He knew there were tensions between them right now, particularly that pompous idealistic narcissist, Godric, but he assumed they'd come around in time. Couldn't they see that letting the rabble in would merely degrade what they had worked so hard to build? That they weren't worthy of learning the craft?

And a chamber? How on earth would a room survive the ages, and the purging inquisition he was sure Gryffindor would put his chamber to, if they did cast him out? And how could one boy, no matter if it was his heir, purge an entire school of the rabble the others would let in? He shook his head in disbelief, and that unnatural voice spoke again, this time more plainly.

"The time has come for the serpent to hide. Make your preparations, and make them well, for by the next cycle of the moon you will walk these halls no more."

Then Tynan was released, and slumped into her chair, only to open her eyes a few moments later, again their normal grey hue. She didn't look at him for a second, and there was silence in the room but for the cracking and occasional popping from the burning wood.

Salazar weighed the options. And the wheels in his mind started turning.

"Come, we build tomorrow." Sahrren gave a hiss of pleasure, and the lord of Slytherin strode out the door, unknowingly changing the lives of thousands with four short words spoken hundreds of years before any of them lived.


	2. Chapter 2

(yay, ch 2 is up. I actaully updated. Please R&R. )

He had aged in the five years since the building, Tynan noticed. It was as if time had sped up after that one event was finished, eager to send him to his grave. There were grey streaks in the Lord Slytherin's hair where there had been none five years ago. Harsh lines creased his face, though he was far from being old.

It was bizarre seeing him deep in discussion with the figure opposite him. The two men were nearly mirror images of one another, two aquiline noses, black hair, piercing deep brown eyes. Only the age marring the face of the one kept them from being perfectly alike. But Tynan knew Salazar's son better. For all that he shared his father's darkly good looks; Viridian had none of his sire's drive, or brilliance. Salazar was well aware of his son's; her husband's, shortcomings. Part of the reason he had them married, she mused, were Viridian's many faults. Perhaps Salazar hoped Slytherin's heirs would inherit her will, and her gift of Sight. If all Salazar's descendants were like Viridian, she reasoned grimly, then there was really no hope for the future.

Salazar gave a hacking cough, reminding Tynan of the weakness that had begun to shadow her lord's steps. It was the building that had aged him so, she fiercely thought, sipping her cognac. All who had worked on that room had slept next to nothing during that hellish, dream-like month. She had spent half her time in a dream-trance, Seeing directions for the room to be made, and was so exhausted when she wasn't in a trance that she couldn't tell the difference between sleeping and waking. The work force had been small, because of the necessary secrecy in keeping the students, and the other three founders unawares. Illusion charms had clouded the halls of that branch of the castle during that long month. Spells to muffle sound, spells to avoid cave-ins, glamours on some of the workers to disguise them; they were everywhere. Spells and enchantments hung thick enough that you could feel them in the air, dusting the back of your neck like cobwebs.

She had watched Salazar and Jules wasting of the effort of so much spellcasting, mining, planning in each day. They had looked like ghosts, and the circles under their eyes had grown deeper with every moment that drew them closer to the deadline. To the day when she had foretold they would be thrown out. Ironically, her lords' red-rimmed eyes, and haggard appearance had perfectly abetted the story they'd circulated, to excuse Tynan's absence from classes: that she was sick. A particularly virulent strain of dragon pox, they'd said.

On that final night, they'd stood on the walkway. The serpent statues were like silent sentinels, and they had just stood and stared down the expanse of stone pathway and still, dark water to the statue. They'd done it. They were finally finished, and no one the wiser. She had stood back, as Salazar nodded to her, and made her way back out the door, which Salazar deftly locked behind her. She'd imagined that the workers had looked around in confusion at her departure, but she couldn't see them. But even the thick metal hadn't stopped her from hearing their screams as Salazar had deftly cast Avada Kedavra on every last one of them. Secrets had to be kept, after all.

Finally, he'd unlocked the door and let her back in. She was still too valuable for him to kill, but the others hadn't been so lucky. If you were expendable, you could be replaced. Even Jules lay dead. Tynan thanked the gods that her betrothal to his son had been made final the week before, and so she was spared.

Yes, Tynan mused, plucking at the ivory silk of her wedding gown, the building aged us all. She felt millennia older than her actual eighteen years. That chamber was paid for in blood and toil. She could only hope it was enough.

Tynan's dark reflections were not apparent in her smile, however, when she lifted her glass to some proposed toast. She'd forgotten how many times she'd raised her glass to some sentimental spew tonight. The gathering of Salazar's closest friends, enemies, and allies had gone through a good bit of alcohol.

Her bridesmaids, a silly herd of girls from school who could be called friends for social purposes squealed over something idiotic. Their earlier attempts of the evening to follow her had been solved with a few snarled insults and hexes. Now they had settled in a distant corner, a bright coterie of ribbons, lace, and fashionably coiled hair.

_"I like weddings,"_ hissed Azyra, the snake clinging to her arm.

"How do you know? This is the only one you've been to."

_"They're like funerals. Only more alcohol, and drunk people."_

Viridian's parseltongue bride laughed and laughed until she cried.


End file.
